by Carolyne Lee, an Australian Francophile

Here are some picture from the celebration on Sunday night.  You’ve probably seen the images already, but these (except the first one) I can vouch for myself.

This first picture appeared in the French edition of the Huffington Post, and from the light, was probably taken immediately after the result was officially announced at 8 p.m.  (We could tell a good two hours before that–by 6 p.m., that is–that the results being announced on Belgian sites would indeed be confirmed, when, the Socialists having put the word out that they would hold their victory celebration in the Place de la Bastille, the sky was suddenly full of the sound of heavy helicopters, soon to be followed by truck after truck of CRS riot police.)  So this picture could have been taken any time from 7 p.m. to maybe 8:30.  These are a whole lot of people.  I didn’t take the picture, but I’ll vouch that at 9:30 p.m. there were this many and maybe more.  See below.

At about 9:30 p.m., Ann and I and Penelope (of the Red Wheel Barrow bookstore) went out to see what was happening.  It was clear that François Hollande was not going to make it to the Place de la Bastille for several more hours.  (In fact, he had only just left Tulle in the center of France, and didn’t reach the Place until about 1 a.m.)  The actions of the crowd therefore displayed a certain ambivalence.  On the one hand, there were large groups of people streaming along rue Saint Antoine–the most direct route–toward the Place, late starters like we were.

There were people in most of the windows overlooking the rue Saint Antoine, most of them partying, and whenever any of the people in a building would wave at the people on the street, they’d be greeted with loud cheers and shouts and whistles.

At the same time, though, many of the people who had already reached the Place de la Bastille had  been there in some cases for up to four hours, and were faced with the prospect of a further long wait, so many were flowing in the other direction, away from the Bastille, either going home or in search of food and a place to sit.

Food trucks, which the police had allowed past the barricades on rue Saint Antoine were, as the French are wont to say, “taken by assault.”   (We were impressed that the cops had had the sense to let the food trucks in.  That contributed a lot to keeping the crowd good humored during its very very long wait.)

Trying to avoid the crush, we jogged up the rue de la Bastille, where it was reassuring to see that important cultural institutions like Bofinger did not feel threatened by the prospect of a Socialist president.  It was, you can see, calmly proceeding with its late Sunday dinner service, unconcerned by the crowds streaming past.

On the other hand, rue de la Bastille did us in.  Anyone who has heard my lecturette on why the boulevard Beaumarchais is the first boulevard in the world (explicitly so named), and how we know that, already knows that this little street was, until the construction of the Grands Boulevards, the only way in and out of the walled city of Paris to the east.  The police barricades effectively recreated that situation, and now as then this little street was hopelessly inadequate to the task of moving that much traffic.  Throw in two EMS vehicles which were stationed there in case of emergency to gum up the works further, and you had created a bottle neck we simply couldn’t get through.  Even with me leading the way, at more than 100 kilos and swinging my metal cane like a cossack, we were simply stalled, and ultimately pushed back by the crowd leaving the Place along this little street.  There was a lesson in hydraulics there, I suspect.

So we turned back.  At that moment we gave the situation about one more hour of relative calm before crowd and police tempers finally snapped and the riot started, but when we got home and turned the TV back on, we saw the PS had done a clever thing on their parts: the stage had been set up on the Place, and it was now populated with musicians.  As it is known to do, music soothed the savage breast, and made it possible for the crowd to maintain its cool for another 3 hours until Hollande finally made it in from Le Bourget.  And then at the end, how did the police get him into the Place–no mean feat?  (Ha! you didn’t think of that little problem, did you?)  I think they took him through the Bastille Métro stop.  The station itself had been closed by the police for hours, of course.  I think they took him to one of its distant entrances, walked him down and under the crowds, then popped him up at the exit right in front of the entrance to the Opéra.  Or so it seemed on the TV.  By this point, most of the musicians were looking exhausted, and were grateful that they could relinquish the stage to the politicians.

The evening before, at my second Cinco de Mayo party, two couples solemnly maintained that Sarko had a surprise to spring on the Socialists, but having myself been in that position all too many times in the past, I could recognize the undertone of desperation in those declarations.  And so a good time was had by all.   Or mostly all, anyway.

In a small, unpretentious theatre near the Bastille  this week, I witnessed one of the most sublime theatrical experiences of my life:  the play Victor Hugo Mon Amour, the story of Juliette Drouet, muse and lover for fifty years of France’s greatest writer, Victor Hugo. All but ignored or forgotten in most official histories, Juliette exchanged with Victor 23,000 letters over their fifty-year love affair, letters which writer and actress Anthea Sogno has mined in order to write this exquisite and historically accurate play. Sogno herself gives a spellbinding and often very funny performance as Drouet.

2012  is a significant year for Hugo enthusiasts, as it is the 150^th anniversary of the publication of Les Miserables, a manuscript that might not have ever been published, had Juliette Drouet not taken care of it during one of Hugo’s several exiles. Sogno’s play, recognised as part of the national Hugo commemorations, and supported by the Maisons de Victor Hugo, has given over 500 performances in 130 French cities, to more than 70,000 viewers.

Bookings can be made online at the Comedie Bastille Theatre.

For those still perfecting their French, I suggest reading the text  first, obtainable from Anthea Sogno’s website. The book itself is a lovely memento of the occasion, especially if you can get it signed by Anthea Sogno, who did just that on the evening that I saw her play.

I’d heard a bit about this scam but had never seen it, nor have I had it done to me. But the other day, while passing the Louvre, I saw a couple a few metres in front of me, with a tall man just to the side of them picking up what looked like a gold ring. ‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘this looks interesting.’ Sure enough, the man offered it to the male of the couple who shook his head, but then the other man sort of pressed it on him (I didn’t really hear their exchanges and in any case I think it was done mostly by mime, since it turned out that the couple didn’t speak much English or French). By this time, I had passed the couple and sure enough they were moving off, with the man holding the ring in his hand and looking rather mystified, with the scammer just behind them.

I asked the couple if they spoke French, but no. English? A little. ‘Don’t take the ring,’ I said. ‘It’s a scam, he’ll ask you for money for it in a minute.’ The couple were looking mystified. Who should they believe? Me, a complete stranger, and an interfering busybody to boot, or the ‘nice’ young man who’d just found a ring on the ground and offered it to them, for luck, since his religion forbade him wearing such things/wasn’t his size, etc etc.?

But upon hearing me telling the couple it was a scam, the ‘nice’ young man yelled at me in loud and very clear if accented English, ‘F@#$ you! F@#$ you!’ Strong evidence that my interpretation had been correct. The young couple hastily gave him back his ring, and scuttled off.

Apparently, what usually happens is that once the ‘target’ has taken possession of the ring and started to move off, the ring-finder then says to them that he’s hungry, could do with a few euros, would like some recompense for giving them something valuable, or some variation on this. I have heard of people parting with as much as 10 euros. There’s some more information on this scam on this Lonely Planet discussion site.

But I don’t like to encourage paranoia, either at home or when travelling, so I hope I haven’t done that. Still, it’s always good not to look touristy, and if this scam does happen to you, it’s probably best that you pretend you don’t understand whichever language the ‘ring-finder’ addresses you in!

En revanche, as the French say, I’ve had countless experiences in France where people have picked up my gloves, scarf, shopping list, magazine, that I have dropped, and returned them to me before I’d even realised I’d dropped them; and I want to stress that this is far more the norm than anything else in France.

I often feel an affinity with the French language, and some words in particular make perfect sense to me, are more natural to me than English words. Take, for example, the verb “parler”, which is “to speak”. “I speak” is “je parle”. Of course I parle. You parles, we parlons, they parlent. There’s more onomatopoeic sense than in “I speak”. But then I hear some words that completely confound me even after I find out their translation. Words that seem absurd, such as “pétoncles”, which is “scallops”. Why on earth is there a word like “pétoncle”? And then there’s the ungainly “soutien-gorge” for bra.

I suppose this ridiculous, almost-anger-type reaction must be an expression of culture shock. It’s surprising what you can be bothered by, even after almost five months. For example, the other day in the supermarket I was shopping for salad, and had in mind a crisp, simple iceberg lettuce. Alas, iceberg lettuces are difficult to get in France, at least in winter. The French have incredible lettuces, actually, lettuces of all different shades that open up into a large, sprawling flower-type-things and that are delicious. But as I realised there were no icebergs, I gazed upon the bed of massive, sprawling, weirdly-coloured lettuces as if they were triffids. At my supermarket, they’ve got a machine that sprays a fine mist over the lettuces to keep them fresh, but to me, in my state of disgust, it seemed as if the lettuces were mutant animal-vegetables that required constant feeding by osmosis. One of the ways in which I’ve gotten over this horror is by discovering the most delicious salad in the world: mâche. It comes in tiny little florets, is dark green, and has a sweet and nutty flavour. It doesn’t exist in Australia, but it’s incredible, much tastier than the iceberg, and I eat it every day. It’s like praline chocolate disguised as a leaf.

A bit more on words: I’ve been having a wonderful time discovering and practising French expletives, such as “merde”, “enculé”, and the therapeutically onomatopoeic “putain” (you have to spit out the “p” and you let the “ain”, without pronouncing the “n”, extend in proportion with your annoyance or shock). And, if you’re really annoyed, you say “putain bordel de merde” (basically, whorehouse of excrement). It’s interesting that the two most common expressions of disgust or annoyance – “putain” and “bordel”, (“quel bordel” signifying “what a mess!” “what a disaster!”) —refer to, respectively, women prostitutes and brothels. Perhaps this reflects a historic taboo that encompasses sex, paid-sex, and perhaps a certain misogyny, that isn’t so apparent in Australia. Our primarily expletive – fuck – has sexual connotations but it is by no means gendered or indicative of particular modes of sex. On the other hand, I highly doubt that the common Anglophone derogatory expression “that’s so gay” would have a translation in French. Oh, but of course, Australia also has the dreadful “c**t”, which is much worse than “putain”, using, as it does, the vagina as a most offensive insult.

Despite the prevalence with which swear words, or “gros mots” are used, France is an incredibly polite society. Not saying “Bonjour” or “bonsoir” to the shopkeeper when you enter their realm, or to the other inhabitants of your apartment building when you see them, is considered rude. Of course, I’m speaking in particular here about the south of France. The politeness of Southern France is, I believe, well demonstrated by the case of drunken and lecherous men who approach you at night when you’re walking home. Whilst in Australia you can expect to hear a slurred “Hey, wanna root?” or “nice tits”, I’ve had one drunken and amorous man slur “You’re so beautiful” and another ask “Would you like to have a coffee with me?”. The intent is the same, but the expression is so different that it almost makes the experience a delight, if not amusing.

And, speaking of well-wishes, the French are delightfully exact with this pleasantry. Of course there’s “have a nice day”, used very often, but there’s also “have a nice start of the week”, “have a nice end of the week”, “have a nice end of the day” and “have a nice end of the month”. This might reflect a heightened awareness of temporal specificity, or perhaps it’s just a cute convention.

Another lovely thing here is that inviting someone, or being invited, to dinner becomes a real event, even if it happens on a Monday night. Any half-decent host will provide five courses: apero (basically, fancy nibbles), entrée, main course, cheese course (at least three types), and desert. And it’s customary for invitees to bring the host a bouquet of flowers, and / or chocolates and of course wine. But while guests show their gratitude with gifts, verbal expressions of appreciation of the food tend not to be as exuberant or extensive as they are in Australia, or at least this has been the case in my experience.

One especially great thing about living in a foreign-language speaking country is that, at least for a little while, it’s impossible to pick up on verbal cues that indicate social status. You have to work so hard just to figure out exactly what the other person has said that it’s impossible to read that person’s speech for signs of, for example, class, (non-)hipness, or (sub-)cultural affiliation.  And, to a lesser extent, the same applies to the visual codes of clothing. Because you simply have no idea, you’re freed from making those inevitable and often involuntary judgements about people based on subtle social codes, and you can simply take them for exactly what they say and do, they become simply human (the downside of this, however, is that sometimes it’s difficult to pick up on cues that tell you whether someone is a little weird, a little off, whether you should avoid them. These cues, too, can be very culturally relative.) Sadly, this ability to not judge slowly disappears as you learn the cultural currency.

And I imagine that it goes both ways, to some extent: it’s the markers of “foreigner” and “Australian” that will dominate people’s reading of you, at least for a little while, and which will completely obscure other kinds of pigeonholing, such as, for example, “elitist academic type” or “un-ironic, mainstream, reality-tv-loving type”. It’s a bit like an erasure of the social identity that you’ve built in your home country, and this is aided by the fact that sometimes (especially at the beginning, when you’re struggling with the language), you simply cannot expressive yourself as you otherwise would. Sometimes this is challenging and very destabilising (we work hard for our cultural identities), but it’s also massively freeing.

(Australian guest-blogger Romana Byrne has lived in France since late August 2011)

After so many visits to Paris during the soldes, I didn’t think I could get very excited about them anymore. But today I discovered that my favourite English bookstore in Paris, The Red Wheelbarrow, at 22 rue Saint Paul, in the 4th arrondissement (phone: 01 48 04 75 08), is having a very serious sale indeed. I’ve always loved visiting this bookshop, as much for the welcoming owner and her staff as for the astute and wide-ranging choice of books.You can read the history of the bookshop here.

It’s also a great excuse to visit the gorgeous Marais area (as if one needs an excuse!), and more specifically the Village Saint Paul, just near the bookshop.

Details of the sale:

25% off all hard-bound non-fiction books

Selected children’s hardbound PICTURE books: 12€

Selected paperbound picture books:10€ plus, buy 2  paperbound children’s picture books on sale, and get a 3rd one free (= 3 paperbound children’s picture books, 20€)

There’s also a big  table in the center of the shop, with every paperbound fiction title on the table only 10 euros (plus, buy 10, get an 11th free = 11 paperbound fiction books for 100 euros)

The shop is open 7 days, 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. except Monday 10-6 p.m. and Sunday noon (or sometimes a little later) to 6 p.m.

by guest blogger Romana Byrne, an Australian who has been living in France since August 2011.

I’ve been thinking a little about how France and Australia differ regarding gender roles, sexuality, and cultural practices, and thought I’d share this with escapetoparis readers to see what you think.

Some of the most interesting cultural differences that I have observed pertain to gender roles. Despite France’s reputation for valuing sensuality and seduction, the heterosexual courtship practices here evidence strict and decidedly conservative gender roles. I’ve discussed this matter with a few people here now, and there seems to be very clear conventions. In matters of seduction, it is often, nearly always, the male who pursues, makes the first move, and nearly always the female who waits, acts cool, plays hard to get, and certainly never sleeps with her pursuer on the first date (or even the second), unless she definitely wants to leave the event as a one-night-stand and nothing more. If she transgresses these rules, she’s “easy” and therefore her value reduces significantly. Of course, not knowing these rules, and coming from a culture where it is acceptable for the female to take a more “active” role in the courtship process, I’ve completely flouted them (fortunately with someone who is too intelligent and culturally sensitive to think of me as a slut!).  Also, I had a friend who began courting a French man, and it was a month before she slept with him (Philippe tells me this is not too unusual); can you imagine an Australian man waiting that long?

Surely this male-pursues, female-holds-back-and-waits dynamic must be restricted to heterosexual contexts; surely the rules-of-procedure for women must change somewhat in lesbian communities, or else there wouldn’t be much happening at all after everyone leaves the nightclub. Or perhaps one takes a designated “male” or “female” role? I’m afraid I haven’t really had a chance to personally investigate queer French courtship yet.

Curiously, in contrast with the rather constricted gendered courtship roles, French heterosexual masculinity appears to be much less narrow than the Australian variety. That is, the “average” (I know this is a problematic term, but bear with me) heterosexual French male can do, and most certainly does, a whole variety of things that would compromise an “average” Australian male’s sense of heterosexual virility, such as frequent tea salons (there are many wonderful salons du thé here), take courses in acting, dancing and singing, appreciate literature and poetry, express his emotions at length, and dress himself with attention to elegance and dignity.

Actually, the broader issue to which this is connected is the more central role of what we vaguely refer to as “culture”. What we might think of as “cultured activities” in Australia – going to the theatre or an independent, non-block-buster art gallery, for example – are par-for-the course, no-brainer Saturday afternoon outings for most people, and are not tied to education level or the position you might hold in the arts industry. And cultural artefacts that we might consider “high-brow”, “art-house” or “indie” in Australia – like old French films, graphic novels, avant-garde literature, Molière and an affected melancholy, for instance – are positively mainstream in France. In contrast to the situation in which I lived in Melbourne, where most of my friends have or are doing PhDs and can boast a privileged training in cultural knowledge, and own plenty of cultural capital, I’m very aware that the social milieu I inhabit here is, in the main, profoundly ordinary in terms of cultural, scholastic, and economic wealth. And this makes the disjuncture between Australian and French modes of linking identity with cultural consumption and activities all the more striking.

Anyway, if any readers have any thoughts on the matter – even if you think I’m completely wrong – I’d love to hear them.